Younger Son
by Laura of Maychoria
Summary: McKay told him not to go in that room, but John Sheppard is at least half cat, with the same curiosity problem. Meanwhile, there's something in Sammy Winchester's closet. Supernatural/Stargate Atlantis crossover.


**Fandom: ** Supernatural/Stargate: Atlantis  
**Title: ** Younger Son  
**Author: ** Maychorian  
**Characters: ** John Sheppard, Sam Winchester, others  
**Category: ** Gen, Crossover, Crack  
**Rating: ** PG/K+  
**Spoilers: ** Pilot episodes for both shows, but that's about it.  
**Summary: ** McKay told him not to go in that room, but John Sheppard is at least half cat, with the same curiosity problem. Meanwhile, there's something in Sammy Winchester's closet.  
**Word Count: **4381  
**Disclaimer: **Pretty sure they're not mine.  
**Author's Note:** For **kajahryujin**, and **cadencecascade**, and everyone else who enabled me. This little prompt thing has mutated, but ShepnSam is _not_ going to be a 'verse. THERE WILL BE NO 'VERSE. (For the wary, I purposefully wrote this story to be accessible without deep knowledge of either show.)

**Younger Son**

McKay told him not to go in that room. He told him more than once, probably, but John couldn't remember for sure. There had been something about abnormal readings and sciency crap and Zelenka hanging at his elbow with those enormous eyes, nodding along, very serious, all _Don't go in that room, it's a very bad idea._

But c'mon. It was just a dinky little closet thing. A cute dinky little closet thing with some kind of engravings on the wall, not a transport, John was sure, not remotely like that. And it _called_ to him, he was positive. And sometimes you just had to check out the closet, you know? So he did.

And that was when he realized that McKay and Zelenka probably knew what they were talking about, after all.

X

Noises were coming from the closet. Sammy sat straight up in bed, staring with wide eyes. He'd been so excited about having his own room in the new place, even though it was small and they would probably move away in a few weeks, so he would have to enjoy it while he could. But now there were _noises coming from the closet._

He sat still, petrified, listening to the thumps and bangs and muffled curses. Ever since he'd found out that monsters were real last year, he'd been kinda nervous and twitchy, waiting for his first encounter with a real live monster. Dad and Dean looked out for him, he knew that, they would never let anything hurt him, but now he had his own room and there was something in the closet and it was big and it sounded annoyed and he was all alone in his own room.

Sam drew a deep breath and yelled. "DEEEEEAAAAAAANN!"

He paused for a second, then yelled again. "DAAAAAAAAAAAD!"

X

John sprawled on his back on the cool tile floor, his feet still inside the closet thingy. He blinked, wondering why he wasn't covered with random clothes and other junk. Hadn't he been in a closet full of clothes and other junk? He was pretty sure there'd been a sock on his ear. Atlantis hummed around him in polite disagreement.

Zelenka was bending over him, turning his head from side to side like a small, curious Czech bird. "You appear to have survived somehow," he informed John solemnly, his Eastern European accent making it sound like some kind of miracle from Jesus.

John managed to raise his head off the floor, though the rest of his body remained where it was as if pasted. Through his tilting, unreliable vision, he saw McKay busily doing scan-like things around the closet place at John's feet, very carefully not going inside. "What happened?"

"As usual, you activated something, and something bad happened." McKay paused long enough to give him a good glare. "Major Dumbass." Then he went back to his science stuff.

"Rodney cut the power and we pulled you out," Zelenka said. "It was all very exciting."

John let his head fall back on the floor. "Did I go somewhere?"

Zelenka's forehead wrinkled in concern. "I do not believe so. We could not hear what was going on, but your signal on the Life Signs Detector didn't move."

John grinned fuzzily. "Knew it wasn't a transport."

X

Sammy stared skeptically at the thing in his father's hand. "A gun?"

Dad nodded and nudged it toward him again, waiting for his son to take it. "It's a .45. Good action, not too much recoil. You get some practice in, and that thing in the closet won't be a problem at all."

Dean shifted uncomfortably where he sat on the other side of the table, pretending to read the comics section. "Maybe I could sleep in Sammy's room for awhile. You know, just trade off until we figure this out."

Dad frowned at him, but he didn't seem upset. Just firm. "He'll have to learn to fight his own battles someday. Might as well be now."

"I could sleep outside the door?"

Sam scowled at him. "I'm not a little kid, Dean. I know what's going on."

Dean looked at him in that wide-eyed, skeptical way that meant he hadn't really heard a single word his brother had said, all in one ear and out the other. It always made Sam mad. He knew all the family secrets now, he knew what was out there, and he was old enough to help. But Dean still acted like he ought to be duct-taped in bubble wrap and stuck on a high shelf.

He sighed and grabbed the gun. "I can do it! Stop treating me like a baby."

Dad patted his shoulder. His hand was heavy and warm, pressing down without meaning to. "I know you can do it, dude. We'll start target practice this afternoon, okay?"

Sammy nodded quickly, and wouldn't look Dean in the eye.

X

The closet thingy was off-limits now, which sucked because John was a hundred percent sure that it wasn't dangerous, really, just weird. Well, ninety-five percent sure. But that was plenty.

"C'mon," he grumbled to anyone who would listen, "I'm pretty sure I discovered the Holodeck. Don't you want to check out the Holodeck?"

"This is your brilliant theory?" McKay took two seconds off from scarfing his pudding snack to scowl at him across the table. "It's lacking."

"But I didn't _go_ anywhere. Yet I definitely experienced something. It's not dangerous."

"Oh yeah? Then how come you were woozy and out of it for, like, the rest of the day? That machine did something to you, whatever it was. Took something from you."

Teyla sat down beside them with a tray and daintily tucked into her salad, already nodding sweetly. "It is forbidden, for all, but particularly for you. You should find something else to occupy your time."

John frowned belligerently at McKay's dessert and his apparent relish in devouring it, then blinked and looked at his own tray, where there was a distinct lack of pudding cup. "Hey, isn't that my—"

"Don't do it!" McKay interjected, gesturing forcefully with his spoon. "Dr. Weir will _eat_ you. She'll eat you for _breakfast._ Possibly with a light sprinkling of cinnamon." He waved a hand in the direction of John's hair, as if that somehow explained this bizarre prediction. "Besides the fact that it might be dangerous, it's so completely non-essential that it's not even funny. At this point we really ought to be worrying more about food."

"We might have to do that less if you would quit eating all the pudding," John mumbled, leaning back and folding his arms over his chest.

He let it drop, didn't bring it up to the others anymore, but his mind would not let go of it so easily. In idle moments his thoughts slipped back to that bare corridor, that intriguing little room. And he couldn't help remembering that young voice on the other side of the closet door, yelling in fear.

John had never been one for kids. But hearing anyone that scared, that desperate, put a fire inside him. There was a tug in his chest, now, pulling him inexorably back.

And so, one night, when the city was asleep and breathing deeply, John went for a walk in the dark. Lights illuminated as he approached them, dim and gentle, ancient fireflies following in his wake. He didn't think about where he was going until he got there.

He stood in the corridor, staring at the little room in sleepy bemusement. McKay had put yellow tape across the door that said "Police Line—Do Not Cross," and really, who had thought to pack yellow police tape in their supplies? He could tell that the power was cut off from the device, though there was no conveniently open panel for him to monkey around with.

Without really thinking about it, John put his hand on the smooth wall and sort of, well, asked Atlantis to fix it for him. There was a gentle mumble, a hum of power passing under his feet, his hand, and a tiny blue indicator light inside the closet flicked on. John smiled, ducked under the tape, and stepped inside.

And crashed through a splintery door into a dusty hallway, where a young boy stood staring at him, eyes wide, shaggy brown head craning to look up at him. He looked to be about ten or eleven years old, a little chubby and awkward, but his clothes were clean and tidy, unlike their surroundings. It looked like a house back on Earth, though obviously run-down, light fixtures hanging off frayed electric cords, dirt and cobwebs everywhere, caking the carpet, painting the walls and ceiling.

John put on his most charming grin. "Hey there."

The boy narrowed his eyes, and raised a shotgun to his shoulder to point directly at John's chest, stance solid, firm, military. His hands did not waver.

This couldn't possibly be the same kid John heard yelling from the other side of the closet door, could it?

X

It was Sam's first haunted house. First recon, first hunt, first everything. He was almost eleven. Dad said it was training.

It might not even be haunted for real. Might be one of Dad's exercises. But Sam had begged so hard and so long, he'd finally sighed and given in, let him come along. Dean had been going along on easy hunts for _years,_ and it wasn't fair, but of course Dad and Dean didn't see it that way.

So Sammy was determined not to mess this up. Kept his hands firm on the shotgun, constantly going through the litany in his head: stand up straight, look, swing and mount, point, finger off the trigger until you're ready. Never point the gun at something you're not willing to shoot. Intention, then action. Be sure. Always be sure.

Dad was on the third floor, Dean on the second, and Sam was down here on the first, carefully checking every room, every hallway, opening every door. Dad had laid a hand on his shoulder before heading up the stairs, his face solemn. "Yell if you see anything. Keep your shotgun handy."

Easy instructions. Easy recon. Sam's hands were a little sweaty on the gun, but that was normal, right? His first hunt. Everything was fine.

The next door on the right was probably a linen closet, a little narrower than a bedroom door. Sam moved toward it, then halted as it burst with a splintered crash. A man had tumbled through it, now stood in the hallway staring at Sam, at his surroundings. Gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt, dark hair standing up on his head, stubble, well-muscled shoulders. He smiled, said something. He was dangerous.

Sammy's gun was on his shoulder before he quite knew what he was doing, a strange ringing fading away from his ears. "Who are you? Are you a ghost?"

The man raised his hands, smile falling away. "Hey, now. Hey, kid, let's not be hasty. I'm not gonna hurt you, swear."

"Are you a ghost?"

He didn't look like a ghost. This house had been abandoned for decades—surely any ghosts here would be wearing old-looking clothes, not this thoroughly modern outfit. Still, the guy looked down at himself, carefully patting his stomach with a slender hand, frowning slightly. "I don't think so. Pretty sure I'm corporeal. And I don't remember dying."

"Sometimes they don't."

"Really? Huh."

The man looked genuinely interested by that, turning his head slightly to the side. And he knew the word "corporeal." Despite himself, Sam felt his hands starting to lower the shotgun. He shook his head and tightened his grip, then had an idea.

"Hold still."

The guy looked startled, but did as he asked with a weird kind of solemnity, freezing in place and watching him carefully. Sammy let go of the gun with one hand and reached into his pocket for a handful of rock salt, then threw it at the stranger. It bounced off him, one small piece pinging dangerously near his eye.

He blinked and twitched his nose. "Ow."

Sam returned his hand to the gun. "Okay, you're not a ghost. Doesn't mean you're not a bad guy, though."

"That's true." The man kept his hands where Sam could see them, still careful. His eyes were knowing, watching his stance, his grip on the gun. "You're a smart kid. I promise I'm a good guy, though. Major John Sheppard, USAF." Slowly, giving Sam plenty of time to see, he reached into his collar and pulled out a couple of dog tags, glinting in the dim light, shiny metal proof.

"Air Force?" Sam blinked. Yeah, he kinda looked the type. Slim, cocky, that faraway look in his eyes, like he was always longing for the sky.

"That's the one." A flash of that white grin again. "What's your name?"

"Sammy."

Major Sheppard nodded solemnly. "Good name."

"Sammy?" Dean's voice behind him, anxious, footsteps thundering down the stairs. "Sam? Something going on? I hear voices!"

Major John Sheppard's eyes widened, and he blinked out of existence, just like that. No flashing lights, no puff of smoke, just a tiny pop of air, rushing in where he'd been. A hand on his shoulder, Dean panting his ear. "Sammy? What was that?"

Sam blinked. "I guess it was a ghost after all."

X

John wasn't quite sure how he made it back to his quarters, but he slept like the dead that night. In the morning, he listened to some technicians making confused noises over some kind of unexpected power drain the night before and immediately found somewhere else that he desperately needed to be. Whatever that room was doing, it was definitely sucking a lot out of the naquadah reactors, and he felt awful for wasting their limited resources.

So no more excursions, then. Even though he really, really wanted to go back and try it again. Whether the machine was a simulation or something he couldn't begin to guess, the world inside it was terribly intriguing. Ghosts? Rock salt? A young boy with a gun and steel in his eyes? It had felt so real, the carpet under his feet, the smell of dust and mold, the little chunks of salt bouncing off his face.

Was the ancient device pulling all of this from his mind or from somewhere else? Who was that kid, and why did John feel this instinctive connection with him? What was supposed to happen next?

But no. Power drain. Bad idea. He had to stay away.

The next time he ended up in the closet thingy was definitely not his fault, though. They were running exercises, drills, because the city kept getting invaded and it seemed like a good idea to actually have, like, a plan for the next time it happened. John was on Alpha Team and ended up separating to run interference against one of the opposing squads. Somehow he got trapped in a hallway, slinking along the wall, aware of several members from Bravo coming up behind him, and then he heard footsteps ahead that were probably from Echo, and _damn_ it, why had they disallowed using the Life Signs Detectors? Those little doohickeys were awesome.

He ducked into an alcove to hide, hugging his gun to his side, and breathed deeply and slowly through his mouth, intent on making absolutely no noise at all. He slid his feet silently back on the floor to press his back against the wall…

And nothing was there. John fell through empty space, his shoulders brushing against some sort of hard, irregular opening, and landed with a muffled grunt on what felt like a pile of rocks loosely covered with crumpled paper. He stared up at the shifting panorama above him, felt the bite in the air, a stiff, cutting breeze. He was…outside? Staring up at dry leaves clinging to rattling branches, dark shapes in the dark sky.

A tentative rustling nearby, and John turned his head to see a young boy sitting with his back to a tree, one leg stretched out in front of him, the other knee pulled to his chest. His eyes were wide and familiar, his hair shaggy, hanging in his eyes, and he hugged himself, shivering. "M…Major Sheppard?" His voice was squeaky and uncertain, broken not just by puberty.

John groaned and pushed himself up on his elbows, blinking warily at what he'd fallen out of this time. A hollow tree. Awesome. He'd landed on a bunch of knotted roots thinly covered with fallen leaves. It felt like autumn, and there was a full moon, and the kid. "Sammy?" he asked, just to make sure.

The boy nodded jerkily, and John got to his feet, stepped over to him, only to crouch again to be on his level. Sammy looked up at him, eyes still wide and scared, but he didn't point his shotgun at John this time, just held it loosely in his other hand. "Hi, Sammy. You look older than the last time I saw ya."

"I'm…I'm thirteen. You don't look any different at all."

The kid was shivering hard, maybe a little shocky. John looked at his stretched-out leg, but didn't see any obvious injuries, anything that demanded immediate treatment. "You hurt yourself?"

"Twisted my ankle. Dean told me to stay still while he and Dad…um, while they hunt."

"Hunting at night, huh?"

He nodded slowly, looked away. John stood up and walked a quick perimeter, lowering the intar training gun and drawing his pistol, just in case. He didn't see anything, didn't hear anything, except what felt an awful lot like a forest back home. Earth. America. No matter how many worlds he went to, he knew he'd never find another that felt just like this. Atlantis was home, yeah, no doubt about it, full of family (already "McKay" had become "Rodney," and who woulda thought it?), but it wasn't Earth.

John crossed back over to the boy and sat next to him, pressing their shoulders close together. "So, Sammy. You find any ghosts in that haunted house?"

The kid grinned, a brief thing, but beautiful. His shivering was starting to fade. "Just you."

"Still pretty sure I'm not a ghost, buddy."

"What are you, then?"

"I'm an Air Force major. A pilot. A leader of a crack commando team. An American. A football fan. Some people call me the space cowboy, some call me the gangster of love."

"And some people call you Maurice?"

John laughed, loud and unexpected. "Hey, you know that one!"

Sammy grinned up at him, then shrugged shyly and looked down at his lap again.

John nudged his shoulder. "But you can call me John."

"Okay."

And that was cool. That was good.

X

Sam was starting to formulate a theory about this John Sheppard guy and why he kept showing up. It was always when Sam was alone, nervous. When he needed someone, but he didn't want Dean or his dad, wanted to prove himself. And so the universe kept giving him this guy, like a guardian pilot or something. It was weird, but what in the Winchester world wasn't?

"So…" he cleared his throat awkwardly, unsure of how to ask it, but the curiosity was eating him alive. "You never seem too…surprised, when you keep falling through doorways and stuff."

"Well, I've only fallen through twice. The first time I was stuck in that closet."

"That was you?" So the monster in the closet when he was nine hadn't been a monster at all. Huh. Sammy shook his head, trying to refocus. "Still, you don't seem surprised. If you're really a regular guy and not a ghost, shouldn't it seem kinda weird to you?"

John shrugged loosely, completely nonchalant. "Believe me, kid, it's weird. But I've gotten kinda…used to weird stuff, I guess you could say. This isn't the weirdest thing that's happened to me lately, though it's in the top ten."

Used to it? Was John a hunter? Sam stared at him carefully, keeping his eyes lowered. Dark fatigues, looked military-issue. And his gun…Sam didn't recognize the model, but it definitely wasn't a civilian gun. Looked like a semi-automatic, big and black and lethal. The man had walked a quick patrol with the same bearing and purpose Sam recognized from his dad, and John's eyes now were focused, aware, constantly flickering around and keeping an eye out for danger, even while his arm was relaxed and casual against Sam's.

Sam hesitated, licking his lips. Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. "My brother and my dad…they aren't hunting deer."

John flicked a glance down at him, but he didn't seem shocked. "I kinda figured, what with it being night out and all."

"They're…um…it's a werewolf."

"Huh."

"Yeah. Dad thought it was a black dog, but I figured it out, from the research and the pattern of the kills. It's going after campers in this preserve, but sometimes there wasn't anybody here during the full moon, so it wasn't as obvious as it could have been."

"But you figured it out anyway, huh? I knew you were a smart kid." John elbowed him, friendly, like Dean when they used to both sit in the backseat, pointing out a herd of cows or a pretty girl or another driver on the highway picking his nose. Dean always sat in the front though, now. Told him he wasn't old enough.

Sam looked away, feeling his face heat up. "Too smart for my own good," he muttered. Another thing Dean said, sometimes, when he was mad. He always seemed kinda upset, afterward, but he never apologized. Dean wasn't one for apologies, ever.

"Yeah? People used to say that about me, too."

Sam looked up, saw John gazing back at him, earnest, his joking smile put away for the time being. "Air Force pilots have to be smart, don't they?"

"Yeah, for sure." John grinned, easy and generous. "But I mean when I was a teenager, your age. My dad…he had these plans. I didn't like them."

Sam felt his eyes widen. "He didn't want you to be a pilot? But being a pilot is awesome."

"You'd better believe it, Sammy boy. It's the awesomest job in the world. In the _universe._ But my dad, yeah, he wanted something different for me."

Sam faced outward again, his mind spinning. He couldn't really imagine that, going against your dad's wishes. His father… John Winchester was like gravity. If you didn't obey his rules, you were probably going to end up with a broken arm. Not that he was mean or cruel—he'd never lifted his hand to him or Dean, hardly even raised his voice very often. But just…Dad knew how it worked, how it _all_ worked. So Dean obeyed without question, and so did Sam.

"Hey, did you hear that?"

John Sheppard didn't wait for an answer, just snapped to his feet with easy grace, leaving his automatic next to Sam and pulling his pistol. He didn't walk a perimeter, but stood a few feet in front of Sam, carefully swiveling to the left and right, focused and intent. Then Sammy heard it, too, a low growl, soft padded feet running through leaves.

Sam sucked in a breath, raising his gun, and then it was _there,_ bursting into the clearing, a human form, though the teeth and claws were a big clue that it wasn't really human. John didn't hesitate. Just let loose with round after round, his arm straight out, steady.

Sam knew it wouldn't do any good, wouldn't kill the monster, but the constant barrage did make it pause, glaring across the small space separating it from the Air Force major. Then Sam let loose with both barrels of the shotgun, blasting it with colloidal silver.

The werewolf fell back with a howl, and Sam heard the shouts, both his brother and his father, frantic. In seconds Dean was there, feeling his arms and torso, making shocked little noises. "Sorry, Sammy, sorry sorry, didn't realize it was coming back this way until almost too late, are you okay, are you okay? I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Sam blinked at him. So Dean could apologize after all, sometimes. He looked over his brother's shoulder, saw Dad standing over the fallen creature, putting a few more silver bullets in it. Major John Sheppard was gone, and when Sam looked to his side, the automatic had vanished, too.

He managed a smile, grabbed Dean's arm to make him stop feeling him all over. "I'm okay. It didn't get me. It's okay, Dean, swear."

Dad finally stopped shooting, satisfied. He stepped over, looking down at Sam with a hesitant grin. "Sorry you had to see that, son. Didn't realize it would look so…human."

"It's okay. I'm okay. I know it was really a monster."

Still, his breath was catching in his throat, his lungs aching from the effort to breathe. He hadn't realized that hunting would be like this. Hadn't realized that sometimes the monsters wouldn't look…wouldn't look completely monstrous. It was a heavy feeling, a deep ache.

And John had shot the werewolf without hesitation, just on Sam's say-so. Because Sammy said there was a werewolf out there in the woods and the pilot believed him, protected him, then disappeared when he wasn't needed anymore. Dad and Dean thought he'd done it himself, kept the thing from hurting him all alone, but Sam knew differently.

It was a weight on his shoulders that he'd never known before, and he wasn't sure he liked it. The idea that someone would kill someone else to protect him, on his word alone...

But wasn't that what Dad and Dean were already doing?

X

This time John woke in the infirmary. As soon as his eyes flickered open, he flinched and pressed his head back into the pillow. "Whoa! Personal space!"

Rodney had been hovering right over him, his nose only inches from John's, studying him as if he were some sort of experiment gone terribly, terribly wrong. At this he nodded and drew back a bit, though his eyes remained fixed on John's face, his mouth set firmly in disapproval. "You almost _died_ this time. Are you happy? Are you done? Don't think it will keep Dr. Weir from having a delicious cinnamon-sprinkled Major Sheppard for breakfast, either. Idiot."

"It was an accident," John said weakly. Now he saw Teyla and Ford, too, hopping off their perches on a chair and another infirmary bed, coming over to smile and scowl at him in relief and displeasure.

"Yes, I will believe that when the Wraith start sending us fruit baskets with little cards saying, 'Sorry we tried to devour your species—here, have a pineapple!'"

Which really wasn't a fair thing to say at all, because now John was distracted. "Mmm, pineapple."

Teyla took his hand, squeezing firmly. "Accident or not, the Ancestors' device nearly drained you completely. You can't do this again."

On the other side, Ford was nodding, eyes wide and earnest. "You can't, man. You really can't."

"Okay, okay. I won't. I promise. I'm done."

John was grumbling, but he realized that he meant it. That tugging feeling in his chest was gone. Whatever that device had wanted from him, he'd given it. Maybe he'd completed the simulation, something like that. He'd helped the kid, saved him from a werewolf (A _werewolf!_ Could that _be_ any more cool?), reassured him that being smart was a good thing. Kind of a weird scenario for a simulation, but okay. The Ancients were pretty weird. Maybe it had some sort of significance he just wasn't grasping.

And anyway, it was done now.

X

In later years, when he cared to analyze it, Sam could trace his dissatisfaction with the hunting life back to the night they killed the werewolf. He never told Dad and Dean about his guardian pilot, because really, who would believe that kind of crazy talk? But he never forgot John Sheppard.

That night was also the beginning of his stubborn self-reliance, his determination to stand alone. He didn't want anyone to kill for him. And he didn't want to kill, himself, not if he could help it. It was a bit of a problem, considering the life they led. He wanted to be with his family, but he didn't want to do what they were doing. The two conflicting desires scraped against each other inside him, sheets of ice meeting from opposite banks, creaking and groaning. Eventually he broke, left.

Sometimes he glanced at closet doors, wondering, maybe even hoping a little, but he never really _wanted_ his strange guardian to return. It was too much and too little all at once.

Jess never asked why he always left the closet door in their room standing wide open, so no one could crash through it or be trapped inside, and he never told her.

(End)


End file.
